Page 8 of Lord of Deception

Chapter Six

Another Sunday had passed and—as far as Kit could tell—the entire household had dutifully attended church. So, the traitor’s sympathies were probably not with the Catholics, but political instead. This would make his task harder, for there were many signs by which he could recognize a Catholic recusant, far fewer by which he would know a conspirator with political or financial aims. But surely, if he waited long enough, there would come a time when someone at Selwood would let slip their mask.

The main object of his thoughts had been studiously ignoring him. Mistress Barchard liked the gardens—she was often out walking in them, but never once did she look his way or acknowledge his presence. It offended his masculine pride to be disregarded, although he knew he should be glad of it—it was imperative that he not attract attention.

Since the small unpleasantness with Mistress Aspinall, he’d made more effort to look rustic—he’d been practicing a slouch, and had given up shaving. He must look a fright by now—his past paramours would barely recognize him. Hopefully, no one else from court who knew Sir Christopher Ludlow would recognize him either, but there was little chance of such a one ever turning up at Selwood Manor.

Unless they were that very courtier whom Walsingham suspected of being in league with the Suffolk ring of rebels. Whose name, unfortunately, the queen’s spymaster was not prepared to divulge to Kit, as he had not yet proved his worth.

Well, he’d prove it soon enough. He was becoming more observant by the hour and, today, he’d noticed there was something amiss with Mistress Barchard. After breakfast, she’d rushed into the walled part of the garden, and stood in the center, gulping in great breaths of air. At first, she’d been entirely unaware of Kit’s presence behind the fig tree, where he was trying to get a rambling rose under control. Hearing the rustle of the branches, she’d spun around, paled, and darted out as if the Devil were at her heels.

The woman was unlikely to divulge her secrets to him. But he had another informant. Swiftly cutting a bunch of marigolds, he put on his most charming smile and headed for the back door by the kitchen. He knocked, then opened it a crack. “Bess! Bess, my dove! Here are marigolds for the cheeses. Will you come? I miss your sparkling eyes.”

A rotund female appeared at the end of the passageway and steered towards him. “Ah, ’tis the sweet-tongued rogue with the muddy boots. Have a care with your honeyed words, sir, or I may come to think you are in earnest.”

He laughed. He liked to flirt with Bessie, the kitchen wench, even though she was twice his age, with a face like a bag pudding. No woman he knew was above flattery, and he considered himself an expert in the art. Especially when he was after information.

“Here. Flowers with petals as silky soft as your tresses, my sweeting.” He dropped the blossoms into her hands.

She grinned as his fingers slid slowly over hers. “Hast come for a tidbit?”

“Only so much as my lady is prepared to give me. I’m an honorable man, as you do know.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she fumbled the marigolds into a pot of water. “How fares the garden? Does Jacob keep his nose out of your business, or order you about as if he were the steward?”

“Mostly, he leaves me be.” Kit leaned against the doorpost, noting with satisfaction the roses he had brought to Bessie’s cheeks. “And is Cook keeping her nose out of your business?”

“Aye. There’s a bowlful of pottage for you if you wish it.”

“Then you offer a good deal more than a tidbit, Bessie, my little bird.” He grinned as she filled a bowl for him.

“My, but you’re a handsome fellow.” Bessie sighed. “Promise me you’ll never get into a quarrel and get your beautiful teeth knocked out.”

“You’re always so good to me, Bessie.” He laughed, throwing his arms about her ample waist. “I know I will ever find good cheer in your embrace.”

“Get off me, you great lummock!” She backed away, but her eyes glinted with pleasure. “Now tell me the real reason why you’re all silken-tongued today. What is it you want of me?”

“You don’t believe I would come here just for your delightful company?”

She shook her head and waved a large wooden spoon at him. “Be quick now, Kit, for Cook is expected back at any time.”

He chewed a mouthful of his pottage. “This is delicious—you have outdone yourself. I would know what has upset Mistress Barchard.”

“Her cousin probably.” Bess’ face fell. “’Tis always her cousin. Mistress Barchard was brought up a proper lady, the other not. Mistress Barchard neither married nor had wealth—the other had both. Mistress Aspinall is not as fine as she should be, whereas Mistress Barchard is a real gentlewoman, though she’s treated like the dirt beneath their feet.”

“A grim situation. But if this is ever the way, what could be so particularly bad this morn to upset her?”

“I cannot tell you that. I know they’re going out a-hawking with Sir Thomas later on, for we’ve to bake them some pasties. That should cheer Mistress Barchard.”

“Does it sometimes seem to you she has something on her mind, something to hide?”

“Mayhap. She’s deep, that one, but she keeps her own counsel. If I were any judge of wit, I’d say there’s none with sense enough in the house to understand her.”

“You say she’s clever?” He already suspected that. “More learned than her cousin?”

“Indeed. Mistress Barchard can read, for one, and writes, too. Some of the letters she uses confound me, mind. I know enough to tell they are not English ones.”

Not English letters? Was Mistress Barchard using a cipher? The skin on the back of his neck prickled, but he kept his tone neutral as he inquired, “Where have you seen these strange letters written down?”

“She left a book in the kitchen garden once, when I went out to fetch some fennel for a griping stomach. I know books cost a pretty penny, so I gave it to Cook to return to her.”

He tilted his head. “But not without first looking inside?”

“Don’t chide me! I needed to know whose book it was. I know my letters well enough to read a name. Hers was written there in English, but the rest of the book wasn’t, and she’d penned a few things in the margin, in the same odd lettering. So, aye, I say she’s a clever one. More so than the rest of them. They never make time for her—she must be so lonely, poor thing.”

“You have a great heart, Bessie.” He put down his bowl and grabbed at her again, swinging her around, and slapping her on her ample behind. It would not do for her to think him too ardent in his inquiries about Mistress Barchard.

Bess recovered her feet and whipped her apron at his legs. This sent him darting away from the kitchen door, laughing. But as soon as he was back in the walled garden, his levity dissolved.

So, Mistress Aspinall wasn’t considered clever. In his experience, those who appeared as fools, were fools. The mistress of the household—despite having powerful, intelligent friends—was, indeed, the empty-headed flirt he’d originally thought her.

Even though his gut rebelled at the idea, it was becoming increasingly likely Mistress Barchard was the traitor he’d been sent to unmask. But he understood not to rely on hearsay or instinct. His heart wanted Mistress Barchard to be innocent, but only the uncovering of evidence could prove her to be guiltless.

He must intensify his efforts to find out what everyone in the household was up to, and find something that proved the identity of the Selwood traitor beyond all doubt.